


Before the Storm: Athisia

by SaigonTimeMD



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Before The Storm, Gen, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 11:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15533235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaigonTimeMD/pseuds/SaigonTimeMD
Summary: Frustrated with her lack of progress, Athisia finds her prayers for power answered - and finds herself back in the world of political intrigue.





	Before the Storm: Athisia

**Author's Note:**

> This story was both written and set several months before the War of Thorns; I really have no explanation for why it took me so goddamned long to get this up besides the fact that I drafted it and then never got around to actually publishing it. I'm an idiot, what else is new.

                The infernal charged and winter itself leapt from Athisia’s hands.

                It held up a rocky arm, blocking the icy fusillade without losing an ounce of momentum, unfazed by the fel-green, frost-coated cracks running along its craggy skin. The wounds thawed in an instant, then disappeared before the infernal had taken another step in the sand pit.

                The sweat across Athisia’s brow froze into tiny droplets as she hurled icicle after icicle at her stampeding opponent, but she couldn’t provoke more than a flinch. Fumbling over an incantation that she knew she should have memorized by now, the nightborne mage conjured a glowing ball of ice between her hands until she felt her blood cool. She finished the spell a half-second before it left her fingers, the whispered incantation erupting into a feral scream of anger. The cold in her arms receded to aching fatigue, as if she’d just thrown a boulder instead of a magic spell.

                The infernal batted the blast away and closed to striking distance; when it bellowed in triumph, Athisia felt her bones shake. There was no time to mount a counterattack or even regret the numerous mistakes she knew she’d made. The end was upon her, and she braced for it with a resigned defiance.

                Athisia’s icy shield withstood the first blow, although she stumbled to her knees beneath the force regardless. The second hit, a double-fisted attack that blazed with felfire like an unholy meteorite, shattered the shield and sent the mage within flying back with a grunt. She didn’t have the energy left to scream.

                The protective wards around the training arena cushioned her impact like a mattress, then lowered her to the floor. She flopped down on her backside, sending up sand in a cloud that left her coughing. Flameburst extended its craggy fist down to pull her up, but she pushed it away, cursing under her breath. The infernal shrugged and lumbered off, leaving her alone. She kicked the sand and pounded it with her hands, but the fact remained: she had failed. Again.

                _Are you hurt?_

                “I’m fine,” she lied through gritted teeth, biting back the urge to cry like a frustrated child.

                The wards on the opposite side of the arena pulled back like a glowing curtain, and Khatep shuffled in.

                Athisia had once wondered what sort of creature the warlock was, what _thing_ hid within the flowing robes. Before the Grand Magistrix’s fall, rumormongers in the courts of Suramar relayed tales of a nightmare made flesh that fought for the First Arcanist and her Nightfallen, a walking horror with an insectoid visage that lured demons and felborne alike to grisly ends before they were found the next morning, ritualistically disemboweled, covered in marks of a dozen different diseases, and their faces frozen in death masks of supreme terror. Even with all that had happened, Athisia thought such stories were propaganda at best and bad taste at worst.

                She no longer wondered. She did not wish to know.

                Leaning on his glowing, scarab-ornamented staff, Khatep lurched across the arena towards her, shambling like a spider without an exoskeleton. He no longer resembled a giant bug – apparently physical metamorphoses weren’t uncommon for the warlock – but something altogether more disturbing: clad in the armored white-and-teal robes of a warrior mage, a tattered hood concealed his face aside from a mass of pale tentacles that swung side to side with his unstable gait. She’d never seen the warlock’s unmasked face in this form, nor had she any desire to; her imagination worked well enough.

                _Round 38 today,_ his voice sighed in her mind. As always, the words themselves came in a purple monotone, while the inflection and emotion behind them she felt sympathetically. She wanted to fall back into the sand as his exhaustion overlaid her own, but something else, something she lacked in that moment, kept her upright: his hope. _What have you learned from this one?_

                “That I’m not strong enough,” she spit, trying to push his warmth from her mind.

                Khatep stopped, cocked his head, and made a single gurgling noise that might’ve passed as a snort from anyone else. A low chuckle echoed in her brain, folding back on itself as if it came from many voices instead of one.

                _You and I both know that is incorrect._ The warlock stuck his ancient staff upright in the sand, and held out a gloved hand. She took the offered help this time and he pulled her to her feet. Physical contact made the emotional effect of his presence even more intense; as soon as his hand closed around hers she felt his belief in her, his desire to see her succeed. Most of the Hidden Hand treated her with an attitude that ranged obligated tolerance to open disdain, but Khatep had accepted her from the first day. Her past, her very reason for being there seemed irrelevant to him, and his empathy and patience for her was inexhaustible. It was almost annoying, really. Still, she was reluctant to let go.

 _There is power in these veins to humble all the mages of Orgrimmar, Athisia,_ he continued. _What you lack is focus._

                “I’m concentrating as hard as I can,” she said, scooping her jade-tipped staff off the ground. The carved lines in its red wood handle hummed in synch with the arcane power flowing through her hand, but the novelty had worn off by this point. The staff was a channeling tool, nothing more, and any power she felt from it was just an echo of her own, a reminder of massive reserves that stayed stubbornly untapped.

_That is why you are failing._

                Athisia shot Khatep a glare, but he motioned over to his infernal as if he hadn’t noticed. She wasn’t even sure he had eyes, come to think of it. Flameburst ambled back, shaking the ground as it came.

_Concentration is good, but it is only one step. Focus is the next._

                “What the difference?”

_The forest and a tree. The beach and a grain of sand._

                Athisia rolled her eyes. More riddles. At least this one was easy.

                “Big picture, small picture. Detail.”

                Khatep nodded, and extended a hand towards Flameburst. The infernal’s gait slowed, then stopped as if gripped by an invisible force. Flameburst growled and its glowing, rocky skull swiveled this way and that, trying to see what was holding it back. It stamped its feet, and sand flew into the air revealing a dozen translucent tentacles wrapping around its limbs and torso: Khatep’s will extending from beyond.

 _This is concentration_ , the warlock spoke in her mind. Beneath his voice, she heard the crashing of waves against impossible cliffs. _And THIS is focus._

                As if plucked by invisible fingers, Flameburst’s wide-eyed skull ‘popped’ away from its meteoric body and floated to Khatep’s waiting hand. Its rocky form crumbled in absence and the tentacles dissipated back to nothing, leaving only a cloud of sand behind while the still-living skull fixed Khatep with as annoyed a look as its rock-like face allowed.

_Do you see?_

                It was a nice trick, Athisia had to admit. The meaning behind it, however...

                “…I suppose?” she replied “I’m not sure I can concen… _focus_ any more on the giant infernal trying to end me than I already am.”

                Khatep snapped his fingers as if he just solved a riddle.

_It is not enough to concentrate on the infernal. You must focus on its weak points: the joints, the eyes, and so on._

                Flameburst’s look of annoyance turned to panic at Khatep’s mention of ‘eyes.’

_Learning spells and memorizing incantations will only take you so far; don’t think like a scholar, think like a warrior. All your power is meaningless if you aren’t using it at its greatest potential._

                Khatep released Flameburst’s head, which zipped back to the pile of faintly glowing rubble as fast as it could. The infernal’s body blazed to life as the skull drew close, and the burning stones rose to meet it. The demon grew to full height, reassembling itself with alarming speed, and eyed the two magic users with wary eyes of fel flame.

                Athisia’s hands were clenched, her knuckles pale blue. She had spent weeks, months absorbed in study, in the Undercity’s Magic Quarter under the condescending eye of that fool Iceshard, in the archives of Pandaria where every dusty scroll contained twenty outlandish stories for every useful spell, even in the libraries of Dalaran when every moment inside was spent with an armed Kirin Tor escort, and now it all seemed for nothing. She’d been a fool – an embarrassingly proud fool – to think she could just learn the invocations and then apply them with the same ease as lifelong mages by virtue, by _right_ of the power in her body and blood. Over ten millennia on Azeroth, and she fared no better against a real opponent than a novice who slept through her classes. What hope did she have of ever attaining greatness?

                A slight pressure on her arm pulled her out of her reverie, and Athisia realized that Khatep’s hand had been on her shoulder the whole time. The warlock had heard – or felt, rather – every thought, every doubt, and every defeat.

                Athisia was paralyzed, trapped like a specimen beneath a magnifying glass, all of her insecurities and frustration on display. Worst of all was the absolute _nothing_ she felt from Khatep: an emotionless non-response, like stepping off a stair into void. She expected anything else – a surge of compassion or understanding, frustration, even pity – but nothing prepared her for what followed.

_Of course, you’ll need to be able to aim, first._

                She heard distant laughter again, as if from another room. Was he…goading her?

                Frost snaked up her arms from her hands, turning the air around her frigid until a bubble of enchanted ice closed around her. Icicles coalesced in her upturned palms, and she gripped them until the projectiles cracked beneath her fingers.

                “You want focus? Fine, then,” Athisia said, smiling as she stared Flameburst down. “I won’t just freeze it. I’ll take it apart and deliver it to you in little ice cubes.”

                Khatep nodded, and pulled his staff from the sand.

 _You will try._ The warlock turned to his waiting pet, and beckoned. _Again._

                The infernal charged and winter itself leapt from Athisia’s hands.

 +++

                Athisia gave up pulling out grains of sand out of her hair, and finished wrapping it up in a white towel. The matching bathrobe came next, and she held it up to her nose as she pulled it across her shoulders, inhaling the smell and closing her eyes. The scent, however faint, of shadefruit prickled her senses, and for a moment she felt like she was home in Suramar again. Luckily, no matter what the Horde ruffians used to wash their clothes, the enchantment woven into the fabric ensured it always maintained its fruity scent – as well it should, considering how much gold she paid for the spellweaving. The bath set had been the only thing her few remaining connections in the city had been able to lay hands on and smuggle out to her; everything else had either been impounded after her arrest or redistributed to the noble houses that aided Thalyssra in her rebellion. When she opened her eyes, there was no twilight city outside her window, no breeze-caressed windchimes to tantalize her ears, no plush rug beneath her feet. She was alone, in a windowless stone bathroom lit by ember torches, her reflection just visible in the fogged-up mirror in front of her face.

                She looked less tired than she felt, but not by much. The lines around her pearlescent eyes and high cheeks seemed deeper, darker than before, and her sharp lips were chapped even after an hour in the shower. In spite of the single acrfruit granted to her after her ‘release,’ she had never fully recovered from almost withering in Fel Soul Hold while awaiting trial; a second arcfruit might restore her youth, but she very much doubted there was any way she might manage such a favor without single-handedly saving the entire planet. This was her. This was home now. Well, this and the room beyond.

                Her bedroom, which she’d once thought of as a cell, had become familiar, even comfortable. Though it started as nothing more than a double bed, a desk, a closet, and a dresser, she had done her best to make it habitable to her standards: she’d added a staff rack, several bookshelves, and as many shal’dorei trappings as she could purchase with her meagre stipend. Most of the decorations were low quality trinkets at best and fakes at worst, imitations and baubles bought from the numerous nightborne merchants that had set up shop along the Drag after Thalyssra and her people formalized their alliance with the Horde, but the positive effect of purple silk curtains around the wide slat windows overlooking Orgrimmar could not be overstated. Still, she had grown accustomed to falling asleep to the sound of drunks staggering home, street carts rolling up, and the distance-muffled beats of tribal drums.

                Now, standing in the doorway between her well-lit bathroom and her darkened bedroom, she heard nothing.

                The streets outside were still occupied, and the torches that lit them still lit, but not a voice nor any sound at all reached Athisia’s ears, as if the world was underwater, under…

                …some sort of spell.

                Two red gems glowed in the shadows of her unlit room, blocking her exit, watching her with unspoken malevolence.

                Athisia sighed. Twice in one night she had been a fool; this time she had been a fool to believe that the First Arcanist would let her live, that the de facto queen of the nightborne would let her crimes go unpunished when she had heard innocents slaughtered outside her door and done nothing but order it double-locked. Lacking her training staff, a leap or a blink out the nearby window would be just as suicidal as staying put given her difficulty with that damned ‘slow fall’ enchantment. There was nothing within arm’s reach, and even if there had been, Athisia knew her physical limitations all too well.

                Staring down the red eyes, she unwrapped her hair and shook it out, fluffing it along her shoulders, then began to unwrap the waistband of her bathrobe. If she was to die, she would leave the most beautiful corpse Orgrimmar had ever seen.

                “Athisia Athuuniel,” a hollow, female voice addressed her.

                Athisia froze, shocked. She had not heard her own name in nearly a year, not since her family title was stricken from the Suramar registry and she had been clapped in irons. From that day, she had lived nameless, honorless, simply ‘Athisia.’ Whoever her assassin was, she knew her target well.

                “Make it quick,” Athisia hissed, trying to hide the fear rising in her throat.

                The red eyes came forward and revealed their owner.

                She was a blue-skinned elf, but not like Athisia. Slightly shorter than the nightborne, she was dressed from head to toe in mixture of leather ranger armor, chainmail, and skull-ornamented elvish plating that seemed to turn from red to purple then back to red in the pale glow of night. A hood was drawn over her head, hiding most of her faded blonde hair, but there was no disguising the full lips set in a permanent frown, nor the bright red eyes that stared out from sunken sockets.

                Sylvanas Windrunner, Dark Lady of Lordaeron, and Warchief of the Horde stepped into the shaft of moonlight pouring through Athisia’s window.

                “I’m not here to kill you, Lady Athuuniel,” Sylvanas said, a single long eyebrow rising in curiosity. “I come bearing a different gift.”

                Athisia’s breath caught in her throat at the sound of her taken name, and she found one hand across her chest, feeling the pounding of her heart. Was this a dream?

                Was this a _trick_?

                “I…I no longer…that name…” Her mouth was dry, the air in her lungs far too thin. “I no longer answer to that name.”

                “My Lady,” she quickly added.

                The Warchief took another step forward, and the left corner of her lips turned up a centimeter.

                “You will answer to whatever name I command,” Sylvanas said, “for I am your Warchief, am I not?”

                “Of course,” Athisia answered, barely a whisper. She realized she had not broken eye contact with the Dark Lady since she entered the room. Decorum demanded she look away from her superior – her ruler – but she was unable to, transfixed by the undead elf’s ruby eyes like a deer paralyzed by the sight of fire.

                Athisia had only seen the Warchief once before, and only in passing; from a moment’s glance, she had deemed the Dark Lady small and unremarkable, hardly worth following. Looking at her now, Athisia was engrossed, mesmerized by her beauty, the authoritative presence in her every step. Had they met under different circumstances, Athisia might’ve deemed the former Ranger-General a desirable advisor or consort – better yet, both – for her own personal retinue, but now she felt the almost uncontrollable urge to kneel. In fact, she already _was_.

                “Rise,” Sylvanas commanded, and Athisia obeyed without another word. “As commander of the Horde’s armed forces, I need every solider in our ranks at the peak of their abilities, from our shield-bearing warriors to our destructive war-mages. Unfortunately, I hear you’re struggling with your studies. Is this true?”

                Athisia’s face flushed dark blue, and a dozen empty excuses were spilling out of her before she knew what she was saying, each jostling across her tongue to be heard first. After nearly a minute of pointless rationalization, the Warchief held up her hand.

                “I do not need excuses, I need explanations. Give me _one_.”

                Athisia’s mind, her heart, all went blank.

                “My reach exceeds my grasp, Dark Lady,” she said, blurting out the first sentence that came. “I need more power.”

                The Warchief smiled.

                “Then you are in luck,” she said, and snapped her fingers, “and _I_ have chosen well.”

                Athisia blinked for the first time in what felt like years, and noticed two men each standing on either side of the Warchief, each bearing some sort of cloth armor in their pale, powerful arms. They walked towards Athisia, and she saw them for what they were: elves, but not elves, taller than her, with sickly-pale skin over black, spiderwebbing veins, and long hair even whiter than her own held back by strangely fanned ears. Their faces were beautiful but cruel, with sharp cheekbones, and thin lips, and almond eyes the color of dark blood. They wore exotic robes of a crimson, leather-like material, with high collars and long sleeves that wrapped around bare, impossibly muscled chests. They disturbed and enticed her with equal measure, each watching her like a predator circling wounded prey, and twin impulses to either run away screaming or throw off her robe and leap into their arms battled for secondary dominance in the face of an already accepted fact: she wasn’t going anywhere, not so long as the Warchief gazed upon her with those eyes.

                Just as the two elves came within reach, they dropped to one knee and presented the armor in their hands to Athisia like emissaries before a noble. Forgetting all sense of propriety, she snatched the robes out of their hands and ran them through her fingers, staring at the carved, scale-like patterns and silver inlays in the moonlight. The material they were made from, stretchy like leather but soft as silk, was unlike anything Athisia had ever touched even in the most expensive nightborne tailor’s shop, although there _was_ something familiar about it. The fact irked her, but was ultimately insignificant compared to the tingling of power that danced along her fingers where they held the fabric. There was power in these robes, but also something else, something she didn’t understand.

                “A gift from the san’layn,” Sylvanas said, crossing her arms with a satisfied look. “An exquisite robe crafted in the style of their bloodmagi dressings. In addition to quite a few enchantments woven into the fabric itself, it draws power from its wearer – as well as anyone foolish enough to attack them – then redirects it however the wearer wishes.”

                Athisia almost didn’t hear Sylvanas; she was too busy turning the robes over in her hands, enjoying the feedback loop of power. Her muscles, still sore from sparring, were reenergized, tingling with the arcane potential of a thousand spells not yet attempted, of foes un-dominated by her inimitable might, of greatness waiting to be achieved. She felt taller, stronger, _younger_ , like a maid of 200 again. The rational part of her mind hitched on a word alien to her ears, and reluctantly yanked her back to the real world.

                “San’layn?” she asked, still turning the robe over in her hands.

                Sylvanas gestured to the two elves looking down on Athisia with ravenous eyes.

                “Vampiric elves, like the two before you,” she explained. Athisia could’ve sworn the two were subtly flexing their bulging arms and tight abdomens; no elf was naturally that muscular…were they? “The san’layn once served the Lich King, but now, with some perspective, they serve me. Everyone deserves a second chance, don’t you agree?”

                Athisia couldn’t even answer, let alone agree. Her mind was preoccupied with all sorts of ideas, most of them involving the two san’layn and an hour or two away from the Warchief’s inescapable watch. It was only an eerie glint of green that brought her back to reality.

 _Where IS my mind tonight?_ she asked herself.

_In bed with the two of these spooky fellows, where your BODY ought to be._

                Another figure was approaching – have mercy, there were _three_ of the towering san’layn in her chamber – and holding the source of the unearthly emerald glow. On instinct, she reached out her hands. There was nothing, no one else in the room now, just her and the enveloping green, drawing closer and closer. She could feel its power, its overwhelming energy at this proximity. The palms of her hands grew cold, then numb, until the moment they closed over the long, purple handle covered in intriguing jade inlays. Feeling returned and overwhelmed her completely.

                Every stone beneath her feet, every muscle in the san’layn’s taut bodies, the Warchief’s motionless heart, fools stumbling on the streets outside, orc patrols in the night sky, the rocks in the canyon itself, the beating of waves on the shores of Kalimdor, she felt it all as her senses expanded far beyond their limits. Power, pure, raw power shot through her arms, up her spine, illuminating the corners of her mind, the untended chambers of millennia of knowledge lit once more. This was the power she needed.

_All your power is meaningless if you aren’t using it at its greatest potential._

                This was the power she _deserved_.

                In the moments after the initial rush, a faint emptiness flitted across her notice, as if the power had replaced or taken the place of something else, but whatever it was, it was irrelevant. She didn’t need anything more than this.

                Sight returned to her eyes and she turned her gaze to the Warchief; she could feel the san’layn’s eyes upon her, the desire in their black hearts, and it brought a smirk to her face. Let them desire her – they _should_ desire her, desire and fear her, as all should; their needs, their lives, were beneath her notice. Only the Warchief could stand above her now – for the time being.

                “What _is_ this fabulous toy?” Athisia asked, engrossed in her new weapon’s appearance. On either end of the staff were elaborate bronze-gold semi-circle foci – smaller on the bottom, larger on the top – with emerald inlays. Floating within the foci were shards of sickly-green ice that turned and twisted on invisible winds, and eerie emerald rime coated either end, hanging off in sharp stalactites. The staff was like nothing she’d ever seen before.

                “The san’layn call it Duskchill,” Sylvanas answered. “And they did not hand it to me to bestow lightly.”

                The three san’layn bowed with respect.

                “As good a name as any,” Athisia said, grinning. Frost spread from beneath her feet, covering the floor at first, then the walls, then the ceiling and furniture, all in a matter of seconds. The san’layn stepped back in surprise, but the Warchief was unmoved, even as her heeled boots were frozen to the floor. Cracks formed along Athisia’s prized purple curtains, and they shattered into tiny shards a moment later. The nightborne mage took no notice. “It will do,” she purred, flourishing the staff once, then twice, watching with curiosity how the enchanted ice within spiraled and spun. As if remembering herself, Athisia turned her attention back to the Warchief. “I would not expect such a gift to come from the kindness of your heart.”

                “As well you shouldn’t,” Sylvanas said, unfazed by Athisia’s presumptuous statement. The Banshee Queen stepped out of the ice sheet around her feet with minimal effort and approached.

                Athisia, still in bathrobe and towel, stood firm as a statue.

                “I know who you are, Lady Athuuniel. More importantly, I know _what_ you are.”

                “And what is _that_?” Athisia asked, an ounce of edge creeping into her voice.

                “Confidant to the Grand Magistrix, the greatest court manipulator in all of Suramar, and a shameless libertine.”

                “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

                “I know the power of loyalty holds no currency for you,” the Warchief continued, “but I do expect you value the power of _power_.”

                “Power I have been without for far too long, my Lady.”

                Once again, the Warchief ignored the nightborne’s impropriety. She wondered just how far she could push the Dark Lady under the guise of grateful eagerness.

                “I know,” Sylvanas said, countering with surprising sympathy – or at least a reasonable facsimile. “More than most, I know what it is to live, to _be_ without. Serve me without question and you will find yourself rewarded _most_ generously.”

                As if to punctuate her statement, Sylvanas tapped the middle san’layn on the shoulder. The towering, undead elf rested his hands on his well-sculpted hips and rolled his shoulders back, cracking his neck to the side. Yes, the vampiric elves were _definitely_ flexing. Athisia licked her lips before she could stop herself. It _had_ been quite some time. There were other things to do, first. Questions that needed answering, and she would never get a better opportunity than that moment.

                “Of course, my Lady,” she said, giving a bow several degrees deeper than appropriate. “Though, if I may…?”

                Sylvanas cocked her head to the side and crossed her arms.

                “Yes?” The annoyance in her voice was audible.

                Athisia, rising slowly, made her gamble.

                “As part of my…rehabilitation, I swore on my life to serve you—er, the Horde, rather,” she began, “so – not that I’m protesting – why the gifts, the pageantry, the clandestine visitation with these _specimens_ to further ensure my loyalty? I am but _one_ nightborne.”

                Athisia could almost see the gears in Sylvanas’ head turning, deciding how much of her hand to reveal. From the way the Warchief pursed her lips, Athisia reckoned she was not nearly as naïve as – or was far more bold than – the Banshee Queen had expected, but in sneaking into her chamber at night, she had given the nightborne more potential leverage than she intended. Now, whatever the Warchief replied, there would have to be at least a fragment of truth beneath layers and layers of lies, or else Athisia would know it for a complete falsehood and her attempt at buying the mage’s loyalty would be a waste. Then again, she could just have the nightborne torn apart by her three strapping horrors and call it a night.

                Sylvanas’ face hardened, and Athisia questioned her ratio of ‘servile’ to ‘curious.’ Perhaps she was more out of practice than she thought.

                “There is a war coming, Lady Athuuniel, and I need people I can depend on.”

                The expectant smile disappeared from Athisia’s lips.

                “The Burning Legion gave the Horde and the Alliance a greater enemy to focus on; in their absence, the peace between us cannot – _will_ not – last. Many of our people understand this, but many more do not.”

                The Warchief walked to Athisia’s window and looked down on the Drag below. The last of the drunkards were tumbling out of taverns and pleasure-houses, or leaning on one another as they mumbled through the same rowdy songs they’d been singing an hour ago. A young Tauren maid pulled her cackling Forsaken paramour into a nearby alley, and a goblin wandered down the middle of street, fiddling with some sort of sparking gadget while leaving a trail of bolts and scraps as he muttered under his breath. It was as close as Orgrimmar got to a peaceful evening.

                “A noble dream,” she sighed, then turned away, “but only a dream. I will not wait for the Alliance to attack first when Azeroth awakes to war.”

                “A preemptive strike?” Athisia asked. Sylvanas nodded.

                “Breaking the truce will not sit well with many, including a number of your fellow Hidden Hand agents.”

                Athisia saw the scheme unfolding before her like an ancient tapestry brought into bright light.

                “‘Fellow agents’ is a very diplomatic term, my Lady,” she said with an intentionally forced smile.

                “Then that will make my task for you easier than anticipated.” Sylvanas drew close and put her gloved hand on Athisia’s shoulder. She could feel the gauntlet’s weight through her robe. “Some on this team may choose to walk away, feeling their short-lived alliances against the Legion were all for nothing. They do not concern us; in time, when they see the wisdom of my actions, they will return to the Horde. Others, however, may stand against me. They may even try to stop me.”

                “Treason!” Athisia hissed, feeling the familiar mask of court chameleon slip over her face once more.

                “When that day comes – and it _will_ – I want you to remember who promised you servitude for an open sky and an unmarked grave, and who gave you gifts _worthy_ of your power when they recognized it.”

                “I believe I understand you, my Lady.” Athisia bowed again with a knowing look. “Rest assured, this boon shall not be forgotten.”

                “I would expect not,” Sylvanas said. “I will call upon you again. Until then, continue your training…and perhaps observe the others in your spare moments?”

                “Excellent advice, Warchief. I’ll take notes; heaven knows I’ve had enough practice at _that_ over the last few months.”

                “Our business is concluded, then.” Sylvanas turned on her heel and walked back towards the shadows in the recesses of Athisia’s chamber. “Atherann, Theraldis, with me.” The two robe-bearing san’layn turned on their heels and strode after the Banshee Queen. The third looked over his shoulder, awaiting a command.

                “Lord Vorath,” Sylvanas called over her shoulder, “why don’t you help Lady Athuuniel with her new robe, then report back once she’s satisfied.”

                “It would be my pleasure, Dark Lady,” the san’layn chuckled, turning back to his nightborne charge. His voice sounded like a jungle cat at the mouth of a cave. Athisia’s knees almost turned to jelly there and then.

                Still curious, Athisia looked over the towering san’layn’s shoulder to see exactly how Sylvanas planned on leaving the locked room. To her surprise, the Warchief took one of the other san’layn’s offered arms, and they walked _into_ the shadows, vanishing like ghosts. That was a _very_ nice trick.

                “Where shall I begin, my Lady?” Lord Vorath asked as he glided over to Athisia. The aura of malevolent power around him repulsed and attracted her, a forbidden fruit alone in her chambers.

                “Well, you’ll have to undress me first,” she said, sauntering towards him until their bodies were less than an inch apart. The san’layn drew up, a predator waiting for the cue to pounce. It was clear to her that the vampiric elf was used to being the dominant one in these…types of situations.

                “A simple task.” He smiled, revealing a set of pristine white teeth, unusual only for the addition of two oversized canines. There was a moment’s tugging at her waist as the bathrobe belt came loose with a single pull from his clawed hand. “What next?”

 _Poor dear,_ Athisia thought, _he really has no idea what he’s getting into._

                “Come closer and I’ll show you.”

 +++

                Nathanos Blightcaller lowered his bow and let the string relax. The arrow that had been aimed at Athisia’s throat for the last ten minutes slid back in its quiver without a sound, and the Banshee Queen’s champion stood up to meet the figures moving out of the darkness behind him.

                “Another successful mission, my queen,” he said, giving a curt bow. With the noise coming from the window on the opposite cliff below, there was little need for whispering.

                “Hardly worthy of the history books, but a necessary nonetheless,” Sylvanas agreed, joining him at his perch between the Drag’s awnings. “Another arrow in my quiver.”

                “The san’layn?”

                “She was under their spell from the moment she stepped into the room,” the Banshee Queen said, giving her two vampiric minions a nod. They bowed in unison, claws crossed over their chests. “Although Duskchill seemed to have an immediate dampening effect on their control,” she added, frowning.

                “You think it wise to give a…creature like her a weapon of such power?” Nathanos asked. “Not to mention telling her of our plans?”

                Sylvanas fixed her champion with a glare that would’ve stopped the beating heart of a mortal man. Behind her, the san’layn bared their fangs, and their eyes turned black as the Void. Nathanos was indifferent.

                “She is a sycophant and a skilled manipulator, but clumsy, obvious, and out of practice. As it is, she now knows nothing save for what most of the Horde already anticipates,” Sylvanas said at last, her expression relaxing from murderous to merely grim. “Besides, most of the Hand despises her. The only thing a story about the Warchief in her chambers warning of treason will get her is a trip back to Fel Soul Hold.”

                “As you say.” In his black heart, Nathanos was unconvinced, but he trusted the Banshee Queen beyond any measure.

                “She will not betray us, Nathanos,” Sylvanas reassured him, sensing his ambivalence. “I do not need the san’layn’s control to ensure that. Ten thousand years she spent in Suramar, second only to Elisande in political power, yet not once did she attempt to usurp the Grand Magistrix. Why, in the most cutthroat courts in all of Azeroth, would she be _satisfied_ with her station?”

                From all the groveling he’d seen from the nightborne a few moments ago, Nathanos would’ve guessed ‘lack of spine,’ but he kept that answer to himself and shrugged instead.

                “Because her needs, however decadent, are simple: she craves power, pleasure, and prestige, things she has been without since her imprisonment and exile. Now, thanks to me, she has two of those with the promise of the third. Having seen life as a ‘lowly commoner,’ her sense of self-preservation will take care of the rest. No, my champion, as long as I keep her comfortable, she will do anything I say.”

                “And if, by some miraculous twist of fate, she grows a backbone?” Nathanos questioned. Sylvanas’ dark lips curled into a lethal smile.

                “Why, that’s what I have _you_ for, my champion.”

                Nathanos lowered his eyes and nodded. The instinct to loose his arrow straight through the ingratiating nightborne’s throat – regardless of how the conversation was going – had been a strong one, and knowing that possibility was still on the table warmed his dead heart.

                “She is a snake,” the Warchief said, “but I have her right where I want her.”

 +++

 _She is a snake_ , Athisia thought as she watched the first rays of morning light pour into her window, _but I have her right where I want her._

                She stretched her arms and walked to the window, unable to stop smiling.

                The Banshee Queen had not shown her entire hand, but had come damn near close. Athisia had already sensed the dissension in the Hidden Hand’s ranks for some time, but the Warchief’s midnight visit only further confirmed her inability to control her own subjects. Her decision _not_ to silence those dissenters unless they directly acted against her revealed a weakness of conviction Athisia had not expected. It could be that Windrunner felt the members of the Hand were too valuable to kill unless absolutely necessary, but that too was foolishness: minions came cheap to the powerful, and none were _truly_ irreplaceable. Whoever walked away from whatever massive strike the Warchief was planning – no doubt an attack on a capital city – they were a liability that should be dealt with. Still, if Sylvanas commanded her to stay her hand until the last moment, she would happily do so.

                Far be it from her to countermand her new benefactor’s wishes, however naïve, and far be it from her to play anything but the keen retainer. Sure, the praise _had_ flowed a bit too eagerly the night before, but given the gifts now in her possession, she was willing to write it off as honest sincerity. Lie too often and the Warchief would never trust her with anything. Tell the truth too often and the Warchief would think she was an idiot. For now, the illusion that she was nose-over-tail with gratitude suited her purposes; let the Banshee Queen believe she would do anything to keep her new, comfortable station, anything to avoid revisiting the humiliations of the past. Athisia had honed her craft over millennia in the most ruthless political arena on the planet. The Banshee Queen would dance to her tune soon enough – at least as long as she kept Duskchill by her side.

                She held out her hand, and the staff floated through the air into her palm with the slightest of mental commands. Whatever aura of domination the san’layn emitted, Duskchill had neutralized it, and Athisia wondered what effect it might have on other types of magic. From this moment, the staff would never leave her side, although its elaborate appearance might be a considerable issue since the only weapon she was _supposed_ to have was her training staff from Tian Monastery. Remembering an illusory incantation, she waved her free hand over Duskchill. Its appearance vibrated for a moment, then reconfigured itself to a perfect copy of her old jade-tipped staff.

                Athisia couldn’t help but laugh. Twenty-four hours ago, she hadn’t been able to disguise a _cup_ , let alone a staff of unimaginable power. Now…now the world was open to her once more, and she would never bow again.

                She turned her back to the window, enjoying the sunlight on her bare shoulders. Lord Vorath groaned and turned over on his back in her bed. She pouted at him. The poor thing hadn’t gotten a moment’s rest all night, and here she was feeling younger by millennia.

                The san’layn opened his blood-red eyes and saw her pout turn to a grin.

                “Please…” he pleaded, waving an exhausted arm, “…no more.”

                “But Lord Vorath, I’m not yet satisfied,” she whined with mock disappointment.

                “Fine, then,” Lord Vorath said, baring his fangs in a resigned smile. “Come here, and you will see the power of the Darkfallen!”

                “I’d better,” Athisia cooed, and laid the innocuous jade-tipped staff on the desk behind her.

                She would never be satisfied, not with Vorath, not with the Warchief, not with the Horde.

                There was a whole world waiting outside her window.

                Now she had the power to make it her own.


End file.
